No trophies, for we have memories
Sometimes It's Just That SimpleWe can take you, to reuse, recycle, reimagine;
We can recreate a new you.
No matter how deep you feel,
We can live for you, no need for breath.
You are shell of skin and bones,
You are able to live,
Yes, but we can show you how.
You are being you wrong.
Many people are like this.
Many people can be like this.
Maybe you should join them.
Many people will do this.
Can you do this?
Colours!What is it to be a man?
We, as a species, are flawed. Insane, impossible and brilliant. Beautiful in our colours. Blue, red, green, brown, yellow, orange, purple.
We exist through each other. The colours painted through life.
They are flawed. Impossible and brilliant. Beautiful in our colours.
Politics; the pallet with which we forever stain the canvas of life. We instinctively, biologically, lie, corrupt and cheat to survive.
But we are flawed. Brilliant. Beautiful in our colours.
Yet why do we help? Profit, maybe; personal gain through relationships. But we are capable of emotion. Thought. Memory. There is no reason for us to be as we are.
Because we are flawed. And we are beautiful in our colours! We are impossible and we are brilliant in our colours. Blue, red, green, yellow, orange, purple.
SanityThe room was dark, very dark. It was one of those few places that exuded fear; even men with the cleanest conscious would instinctively draw their coats about them and force sinister thoughts as to what impossible shames lurked in the deep obscurity far from their minds. This small chamber had long-since been shut off from the world, forsaken, as a result, it seemed to contain nothing other than darkness; no memories of past joy, not a single thought had managed to penetrate the blinding dark. While being singularly intangible, there was an unquestionable physicality to the darkness, as if yet undecided on how to manifest itself. If one was so inclined, a separate darkness may be perceived within the thick gloom, one that was significantly and yet only fractionally, different to its counterparts.
This belonged to The Man. So long had he spent in penitent repose, that he had learned to drown out the incessant cries from outside by focussing on his surroundings; or lack thereof. By shro
everything's imaginary, even the truthi picked my words casually,
like a bored child
on a picnic,
pulling weeds from the ground.
(i don't remember what we spoke of, but
afterwards we walked home
with our eyes locked to the pavement).
and i just don't understand,
why you hold onto me
like a precious secret.
i am always disoriented by daydream landscapes,
reality passes me by in an instant,
a departing train.
and you have to pull me back, to grey cities
and pedestrian crossings.
(i'd be lost without you,
would be happier, wouldn't you?)